The Battle for Britain
by Tanoshimi
Summary: It is England's darkest hour during World War II. America is doing all he can for him, but he can't help but feel that it isn't enough. Isolation and love grapple as he faces inner turmoil. Will he fight with his England or will he remain neutral?


This was something that I thought up when I was in a more somber mood. It takes place during World War II, during the Battle of Britain. The exact time is sort of vague, since I did not do my research very well. Please enjoy!

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England had never looked so tired or so righteously furious. Then again, war had a way of transforming all of its contenders into bitter husks of their former selves. Hence the reason why America was at the moment staring into the television set and not fighting along with the rest of the world. The Briton on the screen was replaced by the newscaster, who looked at America gravely.

"The Battle of Britain continues, with casualties amounting to 360 fighters for the United Kingdom and 690 various planes for the Germans." His tinny voice was replaced by the roaring of engines and planes taking off. A shot of the Royal Air Force hangar filled the American with anxiety. He supposed that England would be flying alongside his men. Sure enough, the camera focused on a person standing beside a Hawker Hurricane. His green eyes were concealed by aviator goggles, his blonde hair covered by a helmet. But his proud, straight figure stood out despite his bulky jacket and his thick boots. A clumsy knitted scarf protected his neck from the cold temperatures in the air, and America was bemused to see that it was the same one he had given him for his birthday.

_Happy birthday, England! I think you'll be glad to hear that I made your gift all by myself._

_…Thank you, America._

It was a remnant from before all of the madness had started. Though he could not help in person due to his isolationist policy, he was still glad that seven of his pilots were flying with England. His people were warming up to the idea of aiding the British. America flicked off the television. He slumped into his armchair. England could very well take care of himself, he knew, but he wished that he could do more for him. His boss was committed to the British effort too. The people loved and respected Roosevelt; he did as well. The president had commissioned a large supply of aircraft to be given to England, so as to help him uphold democracy in Europe. Just a few days ago, he had been told to deliver supplies to the British. It was an action that forever imprinted FDR in his heart. He had rushed to the New Jersey harbor where the event was to take place and stood by the dock, pacing impatiently. When England stepped out of the first ship of the fleet, America's instinct had been to hold him as tightly as he could. The other country looked so weary, so fragile… But that would go against his policy of neutrality, so he refrained from doing so. Anyway, it would give the wrong idea. The only similarity that they shared at this point was that they were democratic. It pained him when England had spoken.

"Hello, America." His voice had been strained and cracked, probably from the intense bombing he was taking.

"England," he replied, trying to curb his emotions. Never had he felt such an intense hatred toward Germany. As the Briton walked over to retrieve the supplies, America had noticed that he had a slight limp.

"What happened to your leg?" he had asked, dreading the answer. Surprised, England looked at him.

"Nothing much. While piloting, I was shot down. My leg was broken when I crashed and it hasn't fully healed yet." Seeing his companion's shocked expression he added hastily, "Don't worry about it, America. I was one of the luckier ones. We've both been through much worse."

"Yeah. Guess so." They had loaded the cannons and crates of artillery onto the ships. Upon closer examination, America had seen that England's arms were mottled with bruises. His face was wan. There were dark circles under his lusterless eyes. The once springy golden hair was now drooping. All the while, the American was thinking furiously that nobody had the right to hurt _his _England that way, to break _his _England down in such a manner so that _his _England looked like he was close to collapsing. He had gritted his teeth so hard that it hurt. After the other had departed, he had felt drained of all energy. The only solace he could find was that he had practically stripped his military to the bare minimum for England, and that would hopefully make a big impact on the war.

America rose from his chair, walking to the window. There was a mother and her child; they were entering a grocery. An old man sat on a park bench and fed pigeons. Everything was relatively peaceful, at least when compared to the state of the warring nations. He sighed. A part of him wanted to remain in isolation; another was on the battlefield. America looked at the scene outside again. Was fighting worth giving up all of this?

At the day's end, the American realized that he had accomplished nothing. That did not bother him, however, and he merely mulled over other matters. Such as the way he thought of England whenever he had the chance. How he wished that he could embrace him, if only just once, and reassure him. That he was able to kiss him and protect him from harm. Most of all, he wanted to be able to proclaim his love for him. But that was not possible at the moment. FDR had already done all he could without getting involved in the war. The people were reluctant to be dragged into the fray as well. For now, England would have to fend for himself. And America would be there to watch until the very end. As he climbed into his bed, tired by the day's ceaseless musing, his futile love bade him whisper his beloved's name in the dark. His dreams (or were they nightmares?) were filled with the blood and gunpowder of battle and the cries of loyal soldiers fighting for their homelands.

Months later, Pearl Harbor was bombed and he finally joined the war. The first thing that he did was to make a call.

"Hello?" The familiar voice answered, sending a rush of exhilaration through his veins.

"Arthur, I love you."

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Maybe the ending was a little random...:| Anyway, the Battle of Britain was when the Luftwaffe (German airforce) attacked England because Hitler wanted to invade the country. It was a battle between the Royal Air Force (England) and the Luftwaffe (Germany). Hitler's plan was to weaken the air defense before initiating the second part of Operation Sealion, which called for an amphibious attack on England. At first, he targeted the Royal Air Force hangars and factories, etc., but when that didn't seem to work he began to bomb the more famous points, like London (to break morale). Ultimately, the Battle ended with England's victory. It was the first time that a country had successfully blocked the German advance.

As for the role of America, we shipped supplies to England and gave them aircraft. FDR was pretty committed to the British. Which I guess is understandable, since England was the last democracy in Europe and Alfred is all for justice and freedom and all that, right? Also, I read somewhere (don't know if the source was reliable) that seven American pilots were flying alongside the British airforce.


End file.
